Joker's Wild
by EccentrikPirate
Summary: I loved him. How could I not? He was perfect, he was charming, he was...frightening. But that didn't matter. When you love someone you stand by them no matter what because...all of your other choices seem to magically disappear." full explanation inside.
1. Play My Little Game

I'm going to try to keep this story as short as possible, meaning it will probably read more like a series of one shots about everybody's favorite clown before his days as Batman's nemesis. To be honest I wouldn't normally have anything decent to write for Batman but this entire story is inspired by and completely based around a very odd dream I had recently and simply couldn't get out of my brain. Anyhow I never read any of the Batman comics (i used to watch some of the cartoons)so sorry if I completely screw with, well, anybody's back story. The story is supposed to take place prior to the new batman movies, with Heath as the Joker in my brain. Story is told from an original character's point of view, for now, who I named after a certain character from the comics and cartoons. Okay so that's enough rambling. Enjoy.

* * *

"And how does that make you feel?" I hate that question. I hate asking that question but when all else fails what else is left in the head-shrinker's arsenal. Oh, great. Now I'm mocking myself.

"I don't feel," the teenage girl sitting across me from hisses.

"Right. Of course you don't," I doodle another row of Walmart-esk smiling faces into my notebook. Is it awful for a psychiatrist to give up hope for one of their patients? What am I thinking? Yes, yes it is.

I clear my throat, "Well—"

"It's time for diiiiinnn-nnneerrr!" a nurse sings as she bursts into the room. She carries a plastic tray topped with Jello and chicken nuggets.

"Well," I continue, thankful for a reason to escape, "looks like it's time for your dinner," a close my notebook and rise from my seat, "so I guess this means so long for now, and that I will see you tomorrow, Sara."

The girl narrows her eyes in my direction, "I don't eat," she says flatly. I nod, awkwardly, and shuffle my feet for a few seconds in hopes I'll say something miraculous. I don't. I turn on my heels and leave the room.

"What a relief," I whisper as I step into the white halls of Gotham General Hospital. I mentally kick myself saying that out loud. I'm not supposed to despise my patients I'm supposed to help them. I glance at the clock above the nurse's station, hoping that the small movement will distract me from my previous thoughts. Well what do you know; my shift is just about over. I sigh in relief.

I take a step forward and then another, making my way slowly to the elevator. As I stroll down the pristine white hall my eyes wonder, falling to a duo of men dressed in clean matching scrubs. I recognize them, a couple of surgeons with a habit of staring. The moment they notice me staring back one of them, the blonde one, averts his gaze. He mumbles something to his friend before retreating without glancing back in my direction. It may just be my tired eyes and the florescent lighting playing tricks on me but for a second I thought I saw him blushing—and smiling—as he walked away.

The second one continues to grin wickedly, winking one of his dark eyes at me. I reach the elevator and groan. Here he comes. I press the down button. Nothing. I press it again.

"What's up, Doc?" my admirer leans himself against the wall in what he believes to be a flattering pose. He keeps that obnoxious grin upon his face.

"My shift is over, Joe," I say, trying not to make eye contact.

"Yeah, but," he takes a step closer and I step back, "it's poker night in the on call room."

"Oh really?" I laugh.

"And we would just love for you to be there, Doc,"

"Who me?" he nods, "I guarantee half the people on call tonight—no I'll go ahead and make this statement as broad as possible—half the staff in this hospital don't even like me."

"That's not true," he attempts to reassure me, though his smile falters.

"I'm shrink, Joe. The IRS of the medical community," the elevator dings and its metal doors slide open. Joe extends his arm to stop me from entering.

"Please?" I shake my head, "it'll be fun. When's the last time you went home from work and actually had _fun_?" I take a deep breath. Fun, well that certainly was a _long _time ago, "Harley…" he coos.

The elevator dings softly again as its doors slide shut, "fine!" I surrender. Joe is positively giddy as he leads us to the on call room. I hope he doesn't think this is some sort of date.

"Hey everybody, look who I found," he announces loudly as we enter the room. I'm greeted by four sets of silent stares. One of which, I notice, belongs to the blonde doctor with tussled hair I saw before.

After several long seconds of awkward silence the atmosphere begins to lighten. Joe directs me to my seat for the evening: one next to him and across my other admirer. He says nothing as Joe and the others begin to laugh, reminiscing about poker night memories past. I, too, remain silent as another doctor deals out the cards, "deuces and jokers wild," he laughs cheerfully. I peek at the cards I've been dealt. Nothing. Just my luck.

This pattern continues throughout the night. Everyone, even I…sometimes, laughs and jokes. Of course every now and then someone's pager would beep and they'd be swept away by a patient in need. A never received a page, nor did I expect to, or a winning hand. In fact I folded nearly every round. Not much of a risk taker.

As my cards are dealt to me for what feels like the hundredth time I yawn, "looks like this is gonna be the last round for your friend, Joe!" somebody chuckles. I think Joe comes to my defense, but I don't care. I'm tired.

"I fold," I say, barely glancing at my cards. Nearly every doctor in the room follows suit, save for Joe and his friend the Quiet One.

The blonde surgeon puts down his cards first: two eights and two aces. "Dead man's hand," he says. His voice startles, soft and deep. I don't think I've ever heard it before. It draws my attention to him and for the first time I notice how young he is. Fresh out of med school. Not that I'm much older, of course. Sigh, maybe that's why I'm a lousy psychiatrist, no experience.

Joe laughs, pulling me back from my thoughts, "three of a kind," he says laying down his cards, displaying his trio of Jacks.

"Oh, I'm sorry," his friend says, sliding his cards away to reveal the fifth one beneath them. A joker, "Jokers wild, right?" a sly grin begins to tug in one corner of his mouth.

"Damn it," Joe says, "you always win."

His friend laughs loudly, "It's not very challenging against any of you."

"Oh come on. Who do you think you are the world champion of poker?"

He simply laughs again, the new twinkle in his eye catching mine, and like the true lady I am… I yawn again. "That's it for me," I mumble, rising to my feet. I gather my things and say goodbye. Joe and the others simply wave me away, almost glad to be rid of me. I exit the room and close the door behind me. The clicks of my heels echo down the deserted hallway.

"Harley, wait!" someone yells once I'm halfway to the elevator. I spin to see the blonde surgeon racing toward me. I hadn't even heard him go through the door behind me.

"Yes?" I carefully prompt once he reaches his destination. He watches me carefully, squirming in his own skin. He licks his lip nervously.

"I didn't really plan…no…uhhh…" he runs a hand through his already messy hair. He closes his eyes, sucks in a few deep breaths, and opens his eyes again. This time they shine with confidence, "here," he smiles, and with a magician's flourish removes a playing card from his scrubs, "My card." He grins, handing me a laughing joker. Scribbled across the card is a name and phone number. Before either of us can say another word his pager beeps loudly, slicing through the hospitals eerie silence. He grimaces at the noise before silencing it. "Um…maybe, you know. You could give me a call sometime? When you're not busy playing cards with those other fools I mean," he says, gingerly inching away from me.

I smile, "I'd love too."

He grins from ear to ear, "Great," is all he manages before his pager beeps again and he's forced run. As he dashes down the hall he glances back at, smiling, every few steps.

I peek down at "his card" again to read the name: Dr. William Jacobs. I smile.

* * *

Another's Note: I made that name up from a combination of two different characters Heath Ledger once played. It seemed an appropriate thing to do.


	2. It's a Funny World We Live In

"Hhmmmm…favorite color?" Will mumbles softly against my neck. He plants a few feathery kisses against my skin as I giggle softly.

"Lavender," I whisper roughly, unable to control my laughter. Will presses his lips against mine passionately. I kiss him back, thankful for the volume to be turned down on our romantic moment at 2:30 in the afternoon inside a hospital janitorial closest. We're on our "lunch break".

I burst into another fit of laughter as we both stumble over a poorly placed mop. "Shhh!" he holds a finger to his lips and covers my mouth with his free and so tightly I can barely breathe through my hysterics. It only makes me appreciate him that much more, being patient with me about admitting our three week relationship to the masses.

I kiss his palm. He removes his hand, allowing our lips to connect once more. "Are…you…a…natural…blonde," I gasp, continuing our game between kisses. I can feel his grin against my lips.

"Nnnooooo," he jokes as we part. His mouth finds the mole under my chin and kisses it gently, "it used to be green." He says simply. Again he makes me laugh. I love it.

His face is once again level with my own, contorted in mock concentration, "Hhmmm…favorite song?" he questions then kisses the tip of my nose.

"Oh that's a tough one," I giggle, kissing his cheek until my lips are at his ear, "The joker, by Steve Miller Band." I can feel his chest moving as he chuckles at our private joke. No pun intended.

"Of course it is," he kisses my neck.

"You're best subject in school?" I prompt. His hands snake their way beneath my coat and up my torso.

"Science," his words are muffled against the skin of my chest. I wore a low cut shirt today specially for this occasion.

"Heh, biggest childhood fear?" I move in to kiss the top of his head but instead find myself groaning at the very thought of my biggest childhood fear.

"Clowns," I admit. I can feel his smile against my neck as he trances a path back up to my ear.

"Father's profession?" I suddenly find myself asking.

"Alcoholic with the occasional wife beating," he says dryly, not a hint of humor in his voice. For a second I'm frozen, not knowing if his answer was serious or another of his many jests. I stay this way until I feel the rumble of his laughter against. I too smile and stretch my arms out behind his neck, preparing to ruffle his hair as our lips meet yet again. As we kiss I catch a brief glimpse of my watch.

"Frick!" I groan against his mouth, he eyes me curiously, "I'm late to see a patient, oh crap!" I quickly detach myself from him, feeling cold where our bodies once touched.

"The crazies can wait can't they?" he giggles, attempting to nuzzle against my neck.

"Oh hush," I strain my face away from his and shove him back with a palm to his chest, "they're not all crazy. Just…confused," I give him a quick peck on the cheek, "so this time I get to leave the closest first and you can wait thirty seconds before following."

"Can't we just come out of the closest together?" he grins innocently.

"Ha ha," I reply with sarcasm. I turn the door knob and propel myself from the closest before he has a chance to rebuttal. The hallway is crowded with busy doctors and frantic nurses. I'm thankful for a second time today when nobody notices my escape. I make my way swiftly down the hall, I should have kept better track of time.

"Oh fine then, just leave me here!" Will projects his from down the hall. I freeze mid step, as many others have in reaction to this outburst, "is this how it's always going be? We make out for ten minutes in a janitor's closest and go back to work _never_ letting our coworkers in on the secret?" I spin, mortified, to meet his gaze across a sea of scrubs. There's a twinkle in his eye as he speaks, "I am so _hurt_, Harley," he fakes a sniffle, placing a hand over his heart, "I am so hurt that my _girlfriend_ won't admit to our relationship? How cruel!" he shouts, his voice full of false hysterics, "Are you ashamed of me? Ashamed like you told me you would be if any ever found out about your secret Beanie Baby collection?"

"_Will_," I hiss, inching my way closer to him, "I don't have a Beanie Baby collection." He doesn't move at all but keeps with his act of fictionalized emotional damage. More of my coworkers have stuffed to listen at this point. From where I stand I could easily reach out and strangle him for this humiliation. I keep my hands stuffed into the pockets of my white coat to keep them from acting of their own accord.

"I bet it's a funny joke to you isn't it?" he sniffles again, "Toying with my heart for these past few _weeks!_" He raises his eyebrows at me, all while biting his lip to keep the grin at bay. It's a sign that he's enjoying himself. Pity I don't feel the same at this moment, "I just want the world to know I love you."

"Excuse me?" I'm frozen. He places his hands across his chest again, an earnest gesture. But how can he say he loves me already? It's too soon!

"And that from here on in I live to make you smile," he finishes, grinning sweetly. Our audience "aawww"s and claps at our display. The ones that are closest can no doubt feel my tension and are the first to leave. The others follow suit and disperse quickly.

"I bet you thought that was _real_ funny didn't you?" I hiss. He nods, smiling so happily at me, "you certainly have a strange sense of humor…and imagination."

"The truth is stranger than fiction, my dear," he takes a step closer to me.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" and another.

"It means, Harley-Queen—"

"Ugh," I hate that nickname, and rhyming.

"That I meant what I said," he reaches for my hand, "that I love you and I don't care if everybody around here knows about us," he kisses the backs of my fingers, "I promise not to ruin your reputation."

"Too late," I pull my hand away, "you are so embarrassing."

"That's why you love me isn't it?" he snickers. Again he's frozen me with words. It takes me a long time, what feels like millenniums, to rack my brain for the truthful answer. He waits, patiently, hopeful. I've never seen the look of hope sprawled across his features before. On him it looks so…foreign.

"Yes," I answer softly before I can stop myself, "it is." This confession satisfies him. He places a tender kiss upon my lips and skips away joyfully.

I'm lost in thought. He's so…happy. For some reason it pulls me back to our tryst. What Will said about his father being an alcoholic… the way he said it. This may just be my shrink side taking over but I recognized the tone. It was a tone used by a person making a confession they're not quite ready to confess yet and brushing it off with laughter. Of course there was something more…_ chilling_ about it. I can almost feel the tragedy lingering in that simple word and protective laughter. How can a person that genuinely happy make me feel bubbly and icy all at the same time. I suppose everyone has a dark side. A place where awful memories go to settle.

"Shit!" I realize I'm still late.


	3. Introduce A Little Anarchy

3.

I wait anxiously—in our usual spot—for him to emerge from the hospital. My mind is racing, playing the same words whispered by Joe over and over again. I can't even feel the cold biting at my gloveless fingers anymore. I clutch my long plum colored wool coat closer to my body out of anxiety more than being nearly frostbitten.

Behind me I hear the automatic doors slide open. I'm racing toward him before I even have a chance to recognize his tall figure. He walks agonizingly slow, keeping his eyes trained to the snow covered ground and his shoulders hunched. "Will!" I halt his march as I stop into his path. He doesn't look up, "I heard about what happened. Are you alright? How are you feeling?"

"Don't shrink talk me, Harley," he grumbles. Will shoves past, knocking roughly against my shoulder. I'm speechless…almost.

"What do you mean don't _'shrink talk me'?"_ I growl.

"Don't give me any of your psychobabble bullshit!" he continues his trudge.

"Will I'm not bullshitting you, Will, I'm concerned," I'm practically leaping through the snow mounds to match his pace, "I want to help you!"

"Oh Hell!" he snaps and pivots gracefully to face me, "isn't that what you're supposed to say?!" he takes a step closer, "Hmm? Aren't you supposed to make all your patients think you're their friend first before you analyze them?" his hand shoots forward to grab hold of my arm. I'm too stunned to react with anything more than a grimace, "I don't want you to analyze me Harley!"

"I'm not," I whisper, my face contorted in a compound of shock, anger and confusion. I pull my appendage from his grasp. He doesn't challenge me for it. His licks his lips out of habit, his way of filling the silent void between us.

"I…just…" I speak first, my voice barely above a whisper, "I care about you, Will," he runs a hand through his messy hair, "you did what you could—" I try to reassure him but he cuts me off with a fit of cackling laughter.

"You don't go off script much, do you?" he laughs. I blink, "Please, Harley, explain to me what I _did_ do? No wait, I already know what you'll say," he clears his throat, "your best," his voice emerges as a squeaky—and poor—imitation of my own, "You did all that you could to save him. Don't worry. It happens to everyone, even the best of us. I know you chose this job to _save lives_," he cracks with laughter, "but he had a bad heart and sadly we can't win them all, Sweetheart."

"Well you can't," I say defensively.

"But I have!' he yells, speech normal again, "I already have!"

I blink again. One, two, three times, "What are you talking about?" I ask slowly.

He sighs a relieving sigh, running another shaky hand through his blonde locks, "I've never lost a game before. Not in the long run," he says quietly.

"This isn't a game, Will…"

"Do you know who he was?"

"Who?"

"I'll take that as a no," he gently grasps my chin between his fingers, "Mr. Gambini, the patient who died on my table today? He was money launderer for the mob and didn't bother much trying to hide it. And you know they're the only ones who are going to miss him, the mob is," his free hand quivers as he waves it about for emphasis, "all they care about is money! Gambini didn't have any of his friends call 911 when he was having that heart attack, despite the fact that all his so called friends _were _present at the time. As long as their dollars were safe and reachable who gives a damn about the banker, right? No need to get the cops involved just _let the guy die_! Of course they undoubtedly did not fully appreciate Mr. Gambini for all his hard work and loyalties or intelligence. Mr. Gambini didn't like books so much he kept it all up here," his fingers fly free from my chin, "but let's see how they fair now without their orderly accountant. I thought," he taps the side of his skull, "why not introduce a little chaos onto their bank accounts."

I stand motionless. I'm afraid to speak. I'm afraid I'll ask the questions whose answer I don't particularly wish to hear. How on earth does Will know all this? Did he study this one man? Did he…

"So I did," he says.

My head is shaking, "did what?"

"I let him…" he doesn't finish his sentence. He doesn't need to.

"Will," I swallow the lump forming in my throat, "I'm sure it must feel like that but—"

"On purpose…" he confesses in an innocent tone. This time I don't dare try to contradict him. The puzzle pieces have begun to fit together.

"Oh…" well that sounds silly.

"Now here's the part where you say you hate me," he backs away with several tiny steps, "because now you know. You know I didn't become a surgeon to save people every time. Don't shake your head at me I can see it in your eyes!" I open my mouth to speak but am not given the chance, "Don't, Harley, I told you not to analyze me! I just…I want you to listen," he waits for my nod of approval before continuing, "You're going to leave me now anyways. I don't know why I like it, holding the power of life or death with that tiny knife in my hands. I didn't plan to do _anything_. Today it just… happened. I thought what I thought and then I thought I could…_challenge _myself; that I couldn't let myself do it but I was wrong and I always knew I would be wrong. I've never lost a challenge before because nothing has ever been all that challenging," he chuckles at that bit.

"Except for now, this instance, of course," I eye him curiously, "well because now you're going to leave. What sensible person would stay? It has to happen," he reaches out and takes one of my frigid hands, " The one thing I want most will inevitably the one I can't have," he slips my fingers into a purple glove to match my coat. He lets my hand drop then reaches for other, repeating the process, "and then I'll have to wonder aimlessly about searching for the next big thing I can do to occupy what will become meaningless hours of my time." His hand lingers against mine for just a moment before he decides to let it fall. I lock my fingers between his before it can go too far.

"I'm not going to leave, Will,"

"What?" he asks dumbfounded.

"When you love someone," the words pour from my lips before I have the chance to even gather my thoughts, "and I mean really love them, you stand by them. You stay no matter what happens or what decisions they make. No matter how crazy or insane some of those decisions may be because…" I shrug, "because you love them and that makes all the other choices magically disappear."

I lean in close to him, just enough to share his warmth. He's the one who's forced to close the minor gap between us for a kiss. Our lips melt together, filling me with liquid fire. He doesn't need me to say it, he already knows: his secret is safe with me. I'll never tell. Years from now I may feel guilt or regret and yet I couldn't find myself caring any less at this moment in time.

"You," he says once we finally part, "are one seriously messed up girl."


	4. Tonight's Entertainment

4.

"_I'm a picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover and I'm a sinner,"_ Will musically whispers into my ear as he captures me into a bear hug. His action disrupts our balance and we fall backwards onto our pillows. I break into a fit of uncontrollable giggling in response, "_playin' my music in the sun…"_

In a fit of irony the sky ignites with another bolt of lightning, quickly followed by the roaring pound of thunder. We _did_ have other plans tonight; ones that didn't include only a _few_ glasses of wine too many and huddling under our sheets to escape the angry rain outside. But who wants to go out in this weather?

I find something about that thought to be extremely funny and the laughter again pours from me. Will giggles as well, reaching for his glass beside our nightstand. He snatches the glass in one quick motion, whipping his head back to slide its contents down his throat. My laughter roars.

"It's empty!" I giggle. He too laughs at his folly.

I nearly topple over reaching across him to retrieve the empty glass. He playfully dangles the item far above my head and out of arms reach. As I launch myself towards him his free arm catches me one again and reels me in for a kiss. Our lips melt together and I am happily crushed in his embrace. When we break away he keeps our foreheads linked. His dark eyes stare deeply into mine and I am hopeless unable to translate his action into words. All I can do is giggle.

"What's so funny?" he asks, chuckling as well. Our skulls slide apart and Will has to catch me to keep me from tumbling over the edge of the bed. My laughter causes my sides to ache and I'm no longer able to produce any sound. While his guard is down my fingers glide into his hand capturing the wine glass. I release it from its prison and press the glass to William's lips. When I pull it away residue from my cherry red lipstick—now transferred onto his lips—is visible. His realizing this causes another wave of giggles to attack us both.

"Y'know what?" he hiccups between chuckles.

"What?" I latch myself to him, squeezing my arms around his muscular torso.

"You get really giggling when you're drunk."

"Well your voice gets really high-pitched when you're angry!" I retort.

"NNNOOooooOOo…" Will teases. I nod "yes". Suddenly his fingers are crawling up my sides.

"Stoopp!" I squeal, wriggling in his grasp. I'm seized by laughter as his hands continue to torture me via tickling. Of course he doesn't listen. Instead of letting me go he tackles me onto my back. I squirm, tangling the both of us in our sheets.

"Say it," he coos into my ear. His hands have no found the ticklish spot behind my knees.

"No!" I squeal.

"Sat it!" he kisses the soft skin behind my ear.

"Uh uh," I shake my head away.

"Pleasssee?" he begs, sounding childish. I'm practically in tears from his barrage of tickling.

"Fine, fine!" I yell, "I love you!"

The attack ceases immediately.

"What was that?" he asks again, pleased with himself and smiling deliriously. I wrap my arms around his neck above me.

"And here I thought you were supposed to be the one living to make _me_ smile," the grin widens. I can't bear to dispute it so instead his lips I plant a small kiss on the tip of his nose, "I love you," I whisper.

"Well, you know what that means," I says in a serious tone, breaking my bonds around his neck so that he can prop himself up with one elbow.

"What _does_ that mean?" I play along, although I miss his warmth.

"It means you have to marry me," he replies earnestly.

"Ha ha ha!" I laugh in reflex, loud and clear, "O-kay!" I snort.

"I'm serious," he pouts.

"No you're not!" I accuse and giggle, "You never act serious!"

"Oh come on now. I already bought a ring and everything,"

"You did not!" I smack him playfully against his shoulder. He leans in closer. I lean in hopes for a kiss as well. Instead of him placing his mouth on mine he reaches for a spot behind my ear.

"Yes I did. See?" he says, pulling a sparkling piece of jewelry from the air. I gasp. The band is silver, a single large stone glitters upon it. The crystal is tinted with the slightest shade of lavender.

"You did…" my voice is nothing but a girlish whisper now.

"So you see, I was right," he takes my motionless left hand and gracefully slips the ring onto my finger, "you have to marry me."

No words are able to form in my throat. I'm afraid he'll mistake my silence for a "no" but when our eyes meet his grin explodes. I realize mine has too. We can't ever help but smile in each other's presence.


	5. Why So Serious?

"What about your Great Aunt Mariel?" Will dangles the labeled photograph inches away from my nose. We sit knee deep in pool couch cushions, old family snapshots, wedding invitations, envelopes, lists, lists and more lists. My fiancé chuckles, "She's a real looker." He says, holding the picture close to his face.

"She's eighty seven and lives in a very nice retirement village outside Fort Lauderdale," I pluck the photo from his fingers, "and she doesn't care about anything but cats."

"She ought to be the life of the party!" I roll my eyes at him. He shrugs, "I'll take that as a no then," and flicks the picture away. It glides through the air for several seconds before landing soundlessly atop the—and there is no kinder way to put this—rejection pile. I scribble her name off one of my many lists.

"Whhhaaatt aabbboouuttt," Will muses, stretching his long arms up over his head, "Bruce Wayne!" He relaxes and slumps against the cushions.

"Ha," I retort.

"Aw, it might be fun to have a celebrity there," he picks up a loose sheet of paper and begins to fold it into an airplane, "especially since he's local and poor Aunt Mariel isn't going to make it."

"What makes you think that, even if we did send him an invitation, a billionaire neither of us has met would ever want to attend our rinky dink wedding?"

"Hey!" Will acts hurt, "it won't be rinky dink. I promised you a nice wedding," He throws his paper creation into the air.

"For a multi-billionaire it might be," I catch the airplane as it zooms for my face. Will pouts, "besides isn't missing or something like that?"

"Something like that," Will yawns, "I don't follow the tabloids."

"Or the news apparently," I unfold and smooth out the folded paper. On it I've labeled the heading in big letters: Will's Side. The rest of the paper is empty.

"Too depressing," he picks up a pencil to twirl in his restless fingers, "I wouldn't care very much if another mindless gangster got himself shot for keeping too much of the bank job money and is now, how you say, sleepin' with the fishes," he sighs, "they're not very creative are they, the mobsters?"

I haven't been paying much attention to anything my fiancé has said. My eyes and mind are focused on the blank sheet of paper before me. We haven't talked about Will's family or friends. Though now thinking of it, Will doesn't have very many friends at all. He and Joe were never as close as I once thought them to be. The only person I've ever known him to be close to for a fact is me. He simply doesn't hold enough trust in people to allow anyone too deep. I don't know what made a fun loving practical joker like him like this…though I suppose…

_"Father's profession?" I suddenly find myself asking. _

_"Alcoholic with the occasional wife beating," he says dryly, not a hint of humor in his voice._

…I could guess. We've never mentioned anything concerning his family since that day in the janitor's closest. I suck in a deep breath. He must have someone else.

"What about your side of the family?" I prompt. He shakes his head calmly.

"None," he says without making eye contact. He focuses on the pencil he now attempts to balance atop our coffee table.

"Oh come on," I add a giggle, "there must be somebody? Brother, sister, cousins…" no response, "A Great Aunt Mariel?"

I can spy the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. I lean closer, wrapping my arms around his torso and resting my head against his shoulder; one of his hands finds mine resting on his stomach.

"Pleeease?" I bat an eyelash or two. He sighs. He knows I'm not begging him to invite any of his relatives to our wedding. I just want to know why it is so taboo to even bring up the subject.

He clears his throat roughly, "My mother," he begins to appease me, "is…" I can feel his chest tighten, "is dead."

For a psychiatrist Harley you really are an idiot for forcing the subject on him.

"I am so sorry," for more than one thing, I whisper.

He peels my body from him, keeping my hands tucked into his. To my surprise doesn't cease his story, "she was killed when I was sixteen… by my father.

"Oh no, Will!" I squeal, my hands fly to cover my face now turning red. I regret making him talk about this now.

"No, no, don't stop me now," he lifts my hands from my shamed face and squeezes them, "wouldn't you tell anybody else they'd have to face this sort of thing?" I don't respond, he doesn't give me the chance, "Now then, my father was an alcoholic and—"

"A fiend!" I yell.

He uses one hand to ruffle my hair then continues slowly, "I would have said not a very nice person but that works too. He had his…moods and let's say I earned my share of bruises living with the guy. My, ah, mom…was too scared to leave him and too battered to go out in public half the time," I gasp, "I used to think about getting up in the middle of the night and just running away, but those plans always died whenever I thought about leaving my mother alone with him. Cause she was…" he laughs lightly, "so _stupid_ to put up with that bastard! I knew she'd never leave willingly either," he pauses for a moment, when he starts again his voice is nearly frantic, "when I started chem., in high school, and 

realized I was actually _good_ at it, I'd used to try and find all those household materials people say you could extract chemicals from to make bombs out of or some shit like that. I had this _wild_ action movie idea that I could make a pipe bomb or something and slip it under the seat of his car or that I could poison his booze when he wasn't looking," our eye never meet, but he's begun tracing circles against the back of my hand with his thumb, "I would have done_ anything _to get rid of him, to make him just stop _hurting_ her—us! Of course I didn't do the _smart _thing and call the _cops_, or simply just knock him out right back. _I_ wanted to be the _hero_ but was still too much of a _coward_ to stand up to him _face_ to _face_," he presses my hand to his cheek, "but I never did anything I wanted to. I succeeded in _making_ half those...things at least but I was _exactly. Like. Her._ Too _scared_ and too _stupid_ to see what was coming next.

"So he comes home one night, piss drunk _as usual_, and screaming that his dinner has gotten _cold_ and what good was my mother if she," his voice shifts, and becomes deeper, "_ couldn't even give her loving husband a hot meal?_ She, now, in her one moment of minuscule courage responded with something like," Will's voice changes again, this time in an impression of his mother, "well if you had gotten home before one a.m. you might have actually had a hot meal!," his lip twitches, "he didn't like that," suddenly his forehead collides gently with mine to rest, "breaks a bottle over her head and just keeps slamming her with it, _laughing_ too! I couldn't stand that sound, his _laughter_," Will grinds his teeth, practically growling now, "he finally spots me in the door frame, watching him beat my mother to death but, _as usual_, not lifting a tiny fucking _finger_ to help. I let her _die_ and watched him _snicker_ at me when he was finished,"

I squeeze his hand, building up the strength to tell him that it's alright. It's not his fault. It's a tragedy. I'm here.

"Why so serious?" he suddenly asks. I blink, taken aback. He doesn't notice, "_Why so serious? _He says, no! giggles actually, as if he didn't know he was making me _sick._ So then he gets his bottle, "Will holds up a hand with an imaginary bottle and licks his lips, "takes a step forward, asks again, why so serious?," he growls, "I say…" he blinks, as if trying to remember, "nothing. And he," his tongue rolls over his lips again and his hand holding the invisible bottle collapses, "falls."

"What?" I finally say, unable to stop myself. He looks me in the eye for what feels like the first time in an eternity.

"He fell. He's dead," he says simply, "end of story."


	6. And Here We Go

6.

"Just breathe," this is a matra I must keep repeating. It's all I can do to keep from fainting. Every girl dreams about her fairy tale wedding, and today my dream is about to come true, "just breathe." I remind myself one more time.

I open my eyes to check my reflection for the hundreth time. Everything's perfect (for the first time in the history of my life). My form fitting dress is white and elegant. My make-up flawless—probably because I'm not the one who applied it. my hair is molded into a twisted bun behind my head and my bangs from my face in a much neater fashion than they normally do. For the first time since my high school prom I see myself truly pretty.

The butterflies in my stomach beat their wings frantically. I want to squeal at the top of my lungs, "Just breathe," I whisper instead. I close my eyes again to inhale and exhale one deep breath. When my eyes reopen I find a second pair staring at me in the mirror.

I turn quickly, keeping my dress elevated so not to rip it, "Get out!" I hiss.

"You look beautiful," Will comments, his gaze surveying every inch of my body. He's all smiles, of course.

"I said get out," I cover his devouring eyes with one hand.

"Why?" he whines, removing my hand.

"Because," he raises a brow, "it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding." This time my eyes wonder, drinking in his image of blonde permanently tussled hair in a black tux with a lavender bow-tie; my favorite color.

"Well I had to take that risk," he exhales, "wow you're beautiful."

I can feel myself blushing. I reach out to grab his bow-tie, pretending to fix it out of a crooked position. "You don't look so bad yourself," I reply trying to keep my heartbeat steady. Just breathe, "Nice suit," I say.

"Oh you like it?" he flexes his arms and spins to give me the full affect, "I think my girlfriend picked it out for me."

"Oh well she has excellent taste," I applaud his modeling.

"Doesn't she?" he bows, "you know I always wanted one of these?" he admiring his outfit.

"A tux?" I question.

"Aren't we witty today?" he chuckles, "No, just a nice suit; something sophisticated and classy."

"Oh and I suppose you never wanted a nice bride to wear that suit for?" I cross my arms across my chest and cock my hip to the side.

"Sure I did," he takes a step closer, "and I was always hoping it'd be you. Now I know that it will be. I win."

"Win?"

"I always win."

"Really?"

_… he cracks with laughter, "but he had a bad heart and sadly we can't win them all, Sweetheart."_

_"Well you can't," I say defensively. _

_"But I have!' he yells, speech normal again, "I already have!"_

"I won you didn't I?" he runs a curious finger down the length of my arm, "and trust me, Beautiful, you're the one thing I could never stand to lose. I'd lose my mind if I ever lost you."

"Are you sure it won't just be in your back pocket?" I pull his fingers away from my skin, "that's where everything else you lose turns up. Keys, ID card, my phone number remember that—"

He suddenly moves in close for a kiss. I press a well manicured finger against his lips, "Uh uh. Not yet."

He grins, "I know I'm worth waiting for, Harley," he begins, my finger still pressed against his mouth, "but let's face it, we've done a lot worse."

"I want to save it," I run my fingers through a lock of his hair; "you've already broken one wedding tradition I can't have you go and break them all on me."

"I've never really been one for tradition," he argues, leaning forward again.

"Sorry Buddy," I lightly shove on his shoulder, "you're gonna have to save it too."

He frowns a bit, but that doesn't last long. "I suppose I should get going then?"

I nod, "I suppose you should."

"Don't forget your lines out there," he advises, turning toward the door he came through.

"I'll try not to," I giggle.

"Oh, Harley!" he says reaching for the knob.

"Yes?"

His eyes journey up and down my figure once more, "I love you," he says with a smirk.

"I love you too. Now go!" I rotate his frame to face the doorway. He reluctantly turns to the knob to exit. I back away once I'm sure he won't try any more tricks.

"Oh, and Harley!"

I sigh, "What?"

Will swoops in like an eagle landing on its prey, snatching my chin in one hand so I can't escape as he presses his lips against mine. There's no point in resisting anymore. He kisses me sweetly, gently releasing my face from his hand so that our lips are the only parts that meet. After several long and pleasant seconds he backs away.

"I win," he flashes me a grin before retreating at top speed.

I inhale, "Just breathe. "


	7. How About A Magic Trick?

Just over two hours ago I had been ecstatic. I arrived home to discover a package I had been anxiously awaiting: the wedding photos. Never have I been so excited to open the mail. I even had to force myself to suppress the edge to call my new husband immediately to alert him of our delivery. Though I'm sure such information would not be appreciated if the page happened to interrupt a surgery. So I resisted reaching for the phone and letting my fingers dial his number from muscle memory.

Instead I viciously ripped open the package to begin the viewing process. I hadn't even the chance to glance at the photos when another envelope slipped from my grasp and fluttered to the floor. I plucked it up, initialing not wanting to bother with reading it (probably just another piece of junk mail trying to sell me something). That was until I noticed the return address: O'Neil Psychiatric Hospital. The envelope had all the markings that its mailer had not been informed of a—or several rather—change addresses. The letter was addresses solely to my husband. I could not stop my anxious fingers from ripping the white package to shreds, nearly tearing the letter inside in two.

Not even three hours later I can't remember exactly what that letter said—says. I still have it in my purse though I have no desire to reread the message. I only scanned it before anyways, allowing key words to catch my eye. Dear Mr. Jacobs, regret, inform, Cliff Jacobs, Father, deceased. Dated a month ago.

So I'm here now, at O'Neil Psychiatric Hospital. I'm not sure exactly why I ran out of the apartment so fast to make the nearly two hour trip outside Gotham City limits to come to this place. I just want, need, answers. The truth. He lied to me. I need to know the severity of that lie. I don't want to not trust my husband.

"Can I help you?" a young receptionist asks once I reach the desk. My lungs freeze. Quick Harley, think of a good excuse.

"Um," what an eloquent beginning, "My name is Dr. Harley Jacobs, I'm a psychiatrist," she nods, obviously she knows a lot of those, "I…um…I'm writing a paper…on the effects of…alcoholism! and…mental disorders."

"Oh!" she replies, intrigued. I had no idea I could be that convincing. Maybe she's just gullible.

"I was wondering if I could interview one of your patients?" I was? "a Mr. Cliff Jacobs, I believe his name is…" I pretend to fumble for something, anything, in my purse.

"Honey, he's dead," a voice answers behind me. I turn to face the older woman, a nurse dressed in scrubs, with a heavy frown adoring her face.

"Oh…" I fain disappointment, "is there anyone, a doctor maybe, I could talk to?"

"You can talk to me," she says matter-of-factly, throwing her hands on her hips, "I was 'is nurse."

"Great," too bad I can't think of any legitimate question at the moment.

She waves a hand at me, "let's take a walk," she says stepping into the hall, "I've got other patients to see."

I quickly fall in step behind her, my heels clicking against the linoleum. I expect a minute, or several, of silence before either of us work up the strength for conversation but the experienced nurse jumps right in: "So what do you want to know?"

What do I want to know? Why did my husband lie to me? Why? What was or is he hiding? "When did Mr. Jacobs get admitted?" is what comes out of my mouth.

"Years ago," she replies, stopping to open a door, take a speedy peek in to make sure her patient was behaving, and closing it just as quickly, "At least ten. No, more than that. Fifteen maybe? I can't remember," we commence our journey down the hall once more. I pull out a pad and pen from the depths of my purse and pretend to take notes.

"Why, exactly, was he admitted here?"

"They didn't know what to do him I guess. Bastard was a drunk, I'm _sure_ you know, but that ain't the reason why he needed to be locked up."

"L-locked up?" I stutter.

"He killed 'is wife," she says bluntly, "Should have gotten the death penalty but instead they stuck him here cause they fingered with the brain damage he couldn't do no harm anymore. Barely remembered 'is own name half the time, let alone what he done. "

"Brain damage?"

"You repeat a lot of things don't you?" she asks me, agitated. She sighs, recognizing the discomfort in my demeanor, "He 'fell'" she creates quotation marks in the air with her fingers, "The night he killed 'is wife—did you know they're boy was watching the whole time too?" I gulp, "so they say," she shrugs. "That's why I don't buy it,"

I stop, "excuse me?"

"I said that's why I don't buy it," she repeats forcefully, "I don't care how drunk you are nobody just falls into the eraser end of a Ticonderoga that just so happened to be standing upright on the kitchen table," she chuckles faintly.

My breath leaves me, "And that didn't kill him?!"

"It was a _small_ pencil. Had to take out that whole right eye though," the air catches in my lungs once more, "not that he didn't deserve what was coming to him, I just don't buy that it was an accident. That boy stood up for himself and 'is mother, just…a minute too late."

"So you think it was self defense," she nods, "do you know if it ever actually went to trial? Before they moved Mr. Jacobs here?"

"I have no doubt the cops had run-ins with him before. Probably hoped that injury would have just killed him, but you can't win them all now can ya?" I wince at those words, "So whether or not those police knew what they were doing when they ruled it an accident or were just plain _stupid_, there never was a trial. At least not that _I _know of."

I check my watch. I can't stay any longer, "thank you for your help." I say, hoping to end the conversation. I don't think I could take anymore.

"Boy did what was right if you ask me," I didn't. In fact, I turned to leave back down the hall we came, "Man did not deserve the life he had with everything I heard he did to the both of them."

I blink, my eyes sting. "Thanks again," I nearly choke on the words.

"Mmm hmm," she nods and keeps the same pace down the hall, leaving me alone. I race out there.

The sun is setting now. The whole ride home, back into the city, I feel as though I'm loosing the ongoing battle against my stinging eyes and tightening chest. I'm shaking. My knuckles turn white against the steering wheel. Just breathe Harley, do you remember that mantra. _Your husband attempted to kill his own father. _There's no actual proof of that. _Don't be stupid, he's killed _at least_ one other that you know of hasn't he? _Shut up. It could have been an accident. There's no proof. _You already have it. The look in his eyes, the tone of his voice, that's all the proof you need. _He deserved it. I know it. Everyone does. That's why…_ he got away with it? You heard him say it himself didn't you? He always wins. _ That man was a complete bastard. _ You don't need to justify why you feel like that. _Why I feel like what?

No answer. I sigh. I must be going crazy. I already know what that part of my subconscious mind was trying to tell me. I should, every sane part of me says I should at least be able to justify why I feel this way, but apparently. Something that crazy doesn't need any sort of justification. No matter how much it terrifies me, no matter more potentially dangerous I now know he can be; it doesn't make a single difference. I love him. I'll protect him. Always.

And right now I'm not actually sure what scares me more: knowing what he's really capable of with all my psychological insight, or being perfectly fine keeping that information to myself. I'm in love with a man any other doctor of my profession would diagnose with some sort of egotistical, blurred edges of right and wrong, paranoid psychosis. My breathing has slowed now, and I don't give a damn.

"Hey!" Will greets with an outrageous, gorgeous smile as I slip through the door. My brain hadn't even registered that my feet had parked the car and managed to carry me all the way back to the apartment.

"Hi," I say softly, my stomach feels topsy turvy. Will sits on a stool propped next to our kitchen counter flipping through glossy pieces of paper.

"Where were you?" he asks, voice still pleasant.

"We're out of…orange juice…" my voice is still a whisper. His brow furrows. My husband leans far over on his seat to better inspect my finger. I'm not carrying any baggage other than my purse. His raised eyebrow is the question he doesn't need to ask, "Apparently so was the store." I mumble.

"That's odd," he remarks but doesn't venture further. Instead he grabs the stack of paper, hops from his perch and rushes to my side, "Look what came today, though I'm sure you've already noticed," he grins and holds an eight by ten sized photograph of the two of us walking hand in hand down the steps of a church. I can't help but smile, all my previous muddled thoughts melting away in that instant. Neither of us was paying any attention as the photographer snapped this shot. My face is alive with what I remember to be ecstatic laughter. Will pulls me along, one of my hands linked with his and the other holding to a bouquet of roses. In the picture a breeze has blown my bangs from my face. The train of my dress flows behind me in a sea of white silk. I blush. I can't help but think of myself as stunning in this one photograph. How selfish.

"It's my favorite," Will says softly into my ear. His words are soon followed by a sweet kiss to my shoulder, "you look beautiful." My grin widens, and then falters as my eyes drift to my new husband's stance in the picture. His face is hardly visible, blocked by his own arm as he attempts to keep rice from falling into his eyes. The only part of him visible is his never ending smile.

"Too bad you can't see your face," I pout.

"Ah, that part doesn't matter; everybody only ever looks at the bride anyways. I know that's all I was looking at," he nuzzles my neck, planting a few feathery kisses. I giggle, flipping through more of the photos as Will's arm snakes its way around my waist to draw me closer. There are several, I suppose pretty pictures, of the two of us posed. Even more of us dancing or kissing or giggling at our own private jokes from a distance. There's one photo of the two of us with mouths full of cake, Will's fingers tugging at the corners of my mouth forcing me to grin. The photographer took the liberty of making several photos already wallet sized, Will's favorite being among them.

A second arm presses against my back, dragging me into Will's chest. I love him so much. He'd never hurt me, not ever. So I won't hurt him either. I won't betray his sacred trust. He doesn't want me to know the truth. Not yet and maybe not ever. I don't care, not anymore. To him his father has been dead for years. He doesn't need to relive that again, I've already made him do that once.

"Here," I whisper, holding the wallet sized print of his favorite picture to his eye. My hand lowers and I slip the snapshot into the back pocket of his jeans where my fingers linger, "so you'll always 

know where to find me," I say with a smile. His eyes twinkle as he crushes me against him, sweeps me off my feet and kisses me on my lips. In the far corners of my mind I can ear giggling. I'm my red lipstick is going to rub off on him.


	8. Aggressive Expansion

"Dr. Jacobs!" a familiar yet unwelcome voice calls to me. Practically prancing down the polished white hall is Dr. Jonathan Crane his sights set firmly on me.

"Oh no…" I groan. I just got out of a meeting with a woman who attempted to saw off her own arm because it was "possessed". I'm so not in the mood for any of his bull—

"Harley?" he taps me on the shoulder. I flash him the falsest grin I can muster.

"Dr. Crane," I reply with forced pleasantry.

"Have you thought about my offer?" he asks his voice slick and oily. He certainly doesn't waste any time getting to the point, "_both_ of my offers?" he smirks. A shiver runs down my spine. His gives me the creeps.

"How many times do I have to tell you," I hiss, venom drenching my voice. I keep my face half hidden by the chart in my hand so not to alert the rest of the hospital personal of my loathing for this man, "I am a happily married woman, Crane."

"Of course," he doesn't falter, "I was merely kidding," he clears his throat in defeat once, "but I was wondering if you were still interested in that job offer."

"I said let me think about it," I attempt to escape. His hand latches onto my coat to hold me in place. I sigh in obvious frustration.

"I know you're well aware of the pay raise you'd receive and _I_ am well aware of how you've recently expressed interest in criminal psychology and having the chance to work with some of Gotham's…strangest," his grin becomes a sneer, "of course I could always find someone more _appreciative_ of my offers," he leans in close to me so that I can feel the heat of his breath on my cheek, "I know you want this job, Doctor."

Damn. He's right.

Before either one of us has the chance for a potential threat or witty remark a heavy hand smacks down onto Crane's shoulder. He grimaces as the hand squeezes.

"Can I help you?" a calm—yet menacing— voice belonging to my husband questions.

Crane recognizes his captor immediately and releases my arm. He holds his hands up in surrender. In exchange Will loosens the grip on his shoulder and somehow manages to elegantly poise his body between Crane and I. "None at all…"

"Good," Will replies in the same tone. My freed arm instantly links itself with his, "So I take it you'll be going then?"

"Yes," Crane twitches, a glint of anger in his pale eyes, "Think about it Har—" Crane stops himself from using my full name beneath my husband's predator gaze, "Dr. Jacobs. You know how to 

contact me," instead of facing me as he says this Crane's eyes are focused on the object between us; after a few moments of hungry stares and subtle growling the former huffs away without another word.

"I don't like that guy," Will announces after Crane vanishes around a corner. He throws his arm protectively around me.

"Neither do I," I snort.

"He was trying to make a pass at you," he grumbles.

"Is somebody jealously?" I giggle.

"Yes," Will replies seriously. I suck in a deep breath and hold it. Oh, he's not going to like this.

"I'm thinking about taking the job," I say carefully.

"What?!" he instinctively tightens his hold over me, "No." he says firmly.

"Will please," I wriggle free, "it _is_ a better job. Better pay."

"W-we don't need it," a tongue slides its way over Will's lips, "I don't want you working there, Harley," a hand snakes its way through his messy hair, "Not with _him!_" he hisses.

"Trust me, that's a turn off," I reach for his hand but he pulls away.

"Then what could possibly be a _turn on?_!" his voice is getting high-pitched again. Not a good sign. I must restrain myself from shushing him for making a scene (though he has created worse) but he most certainly wouldn't like that.

I reply smoothly, softly, "Better hours,"

"In a shitty place,"

"A chance to do want I've always wanted,"

"Peering deep inside the minds of the criminally insane?!" he shouts in disbelief, "_the legitimately crazy?!" _ Yeah, what a stretch.

"The _confused_," I mutter. He mutters something intangible in return, "Like I said more money,"

"HA!" he cackles, "Contrary to popular _belief the_ world is _not _all about _money,_ Harley," he pleads.

"I never said it was," he opens his mouth but I don't let him go much further, "and _contrary_ to popular _belief_, nobody these days can survive _without it_. What happened to us wanting to get a bigger place, a better place, in a better neighborhood for," I pause, "_you know."_

This stops the frustrated rant forming in his brain cold, "_you know_" he mocks, "it's not safe…" he ends in a whisper.

"All the criminals are safely behind padded cells in their cozy strait jackets, Will," this time he allows my fingers to entwine with his, "I'm taking the job."

He bites his lip, anger evident in the ceases above his brow. Will speaks again in a deep growl, "he so much as _looks_ at you wrong," he threatens. He means Crane, not the criminals.

"Hey," I stop him, keeping my mood calm, "I trust you to wreak havoc on the entire _city _if anything should go wrong."

"Don't say that," he means the go wrong part.

I kiss him gently, "I'm taking the job," I say softly. He sighs, defeated and unhappy.


	9. I'll Settle for His Loved Ones

"Ugh, shoot…" I hiss. Why am I always running late for something? If I don't leave now I won't make it home in time for takeout night. I think this week the Mr. and Mrs. J were planning on Chinese. Great, now I'm referring to myself in the third person. Is that the stress of a job transfer does to you? Don't get me wrong, I don't regret taking the job. I'm actually starting to like what I do, figuring out what makes the thieves and murderers tick. There must be something wrong with me to like this work so much.

I snatch my purse from my desk and my _new_ office and flick off the light switch. Time to go home, Harley. You have somebody waiting for you.

"Dr. Jacobs," Jonathon Crane is already poised and waiting for the elevator by the time I arrive, almost like he was expecting, "how are you this evening?" he smiles pleasantly.

"Fine," I grumble, hoping he'll take the hint and stop talking to me. He's the part of the new job I like _least_. My antsy finger reaches out and pokes the down button.

"I already did that," Crane says. I nod, forcing a half-hearted grin. I turn my face away from and pretend to inspect a flashing bulb at the end of the hall. Someone really should fix that.

DING

The sound of the arriving elevator draws my attention back. I whirl my head around to find Crane standing several centimeters too close, his eyes closed and nose tipped towards my hair. I gasp, leaping a giant step backwards. Crane says nothing, he just stares. He really is starting to give me the creeps. I dash into the elevator before either of us can say anything. My finger punches at the button in charge of closing the heavy doors.

"You know," Crane hisses, slipping into the small moveable box just as the doors begin to slide shut. Again I gasp, startled by the sudden venom in his voice, "you never did except my second offer."

My back collides with the wall. I feel the elevator jerk into motion. No escape now. "I wasn't interested," I wanted my voice to remain calm in my reply, but instead it emerged shaky. Crane smirks, feeding off my new fear. My legs begin to quiver as he takes a step toward me.

"Well I hadn't planned on taking no for an answer," he growls. I gulp my breath and pulse quickening. I slip my hand inside my purse, blindly searching for the small pocket knife I carry; a gift from Will to protect myself with on those dirty streets of Gotham. My fingers crawl around, fumbling through my collection of junk. Crane stands still, waiting for me to make a mistake so that he can pounce. I don't disappoint. For a brief second my eyes slip downward to peer inside my purse. That's when he grabs me. He pins both my arms at my second, his nails biting into my skin through my blouse.

Of course I scream and wiggling and grumble and kick blindly—I've squeezed my eyes shut. I can feel Crane's sticky breath on my neck, he growls something else to me but the adrenaline refuses for me to listen. Instead I kick him with all my strength in his shin. He hisses and for a moment his hand capturing my arm falters. I shake it free, claw at his face with my nails briefly before I stretch. Crane 

continues to groan and his after my finger nails scratch his flesh. My hand smashes into the brass panel filled with buttons on the elevator wall. I push them frantically, as many as I can. My attacker's sweaty hand snatches my wrist and pulls it back. I squeal and just as I do I feel the elevator jerk once more, indicating it's stop. I open my eyes to meet Crane's furious, hungry, animalistic gaze. Despite my temperature raising a chill runs through me as he snarls. I kick again. This time where it really hurts.

His hands release me instantly as they reflexly move to cover his groin. He tumbles to his knees with an unflattering: "oopphh". I dart past him, through the elevator doors and down the hall. I don't recognize this floor as I run. Where am I?

I scream as my sprint comes to halt but quickly throw my palms over my mouth to silence the noise. I stand, trembling, in what I now realize must be the basement. There's boilers, pipes and etcetera everywhere. That and dozens of men in white paper masks spilling chemicals into vats and separating piles of powdered substances. Is this…are they making drugs?

A clawed hand digs into the flesh of my shoulder. I whimper as it whips me around to face its owner. Crane sneers, "I don't think this job is working out for you, Harley," he snaps, "come!" he pulls me to the cold tile floor.

"No!" I scream and thrash as he drags me by the wrist back down the hall I came from.

"You weren't supposed to see this, Harley," my hands begin clawing frantically at his suit jacket covered arms, "now I have some damage control to take care of."

"No!" I screech again. I remember my knife. With my free hand I dig once more into purse, still draped over the shoulder of my imprisoned arm. Crane doesn't notice.

"Where is your husband now, hmm?" he taunts, "now when you need him to protect you? Say, Harley, you ever look at him and wonder how stable his sanity might be?" my fingers graze over something cold and metallic, "because I have. But then again I seem to be doing that to more people more and more often lately."

"SHUT UP!!" I cry. I've found my knife and managed to open it with one hand as Crane rants. I plunge the small but sharp blade into his hand. He gasps pain, freeing my wrist as the blood begins to seep. I pull myself to my feet and scamper for the elevator close by while he curses me from behind.

Something, or someone, kicks my feet out from beneath. I yelp. As I fall my hand grazes over the up button. Crane's sweaty hand grabs me by the shoulder once more and whips my body around to face him. I hear the loud ding of the elevator's opening doors as he does so.

I try turning, but Crane whips my neck around again. My face is greeted by a cloud of mist. He's sprayed…something…

He drops me, my head hurts. I crawl, even shakier than before into the metal box. I half expect Crane to follow me but I hear no footsteps from behind. Instead I hear an ugly sound, laughing and 

distorted to sound like a monster. I glance up. Outside the elevator a monster towers high over me. Its face is a crippled mess, eyes and mouth turning into dark, sneering abysses. I scream. The doors close.

My head spins as the metal box carries me upward. I clutch tightly to my knife, my only source of protection. I'm seeing double, no matter how many times I blink I can't seem to shake it. Everything is blurry. Everywhere I turn my head there are new faces etched into the walls, snarling at me with hideous shrieks and demonic glowing eyes. One seems to come alive, opening its wide mouth to swallow me whole.

I yelp some more, leaping out of the creatures reach. Instead of smashing into the elevator wall I fly through empty space, my body sliding onto polished floors. I look up. An empty space in the wall has transformed into another grinning mouth, huge and angry. Its jaws begin to slide shut, hoping to crush my feet between its teeth. I scramble away, barely able to stand but I still have both my feet.

The walls, ceiling, floor all spin and blur together laughing wickedly at me with distorted smiles. I try to run but I just keep stumbling in every direction.

"Haaarrrllleeeyyy," something behind me growls my name. I pivot to face the creature but immediately back away. Its face is white, with a black hole of a mouth and equally dark pits for eyes. The thing howls again, its bony talons reaching for me. I stumble backward quickly, not wanting this monster to catch me. In the center of its black rings, its eyes, are glowing white pupils that burn through my skin, piecing my heart with fear.

"Hhaarrllleeeeyyyy," again it snarls. I remember the knife in my hand. I swing my arm out as fast as I can, hoping to strike the creature. I can feel the metal in my hand tear into flesh and the monster's gaping black mouth is suddenly transformed into a bright red grin. The color twists and whirls upward, leering upon the thing's face. It reminds me of a clown.

I hear it howl in pain, chilling me to the bone. One of the creature's talons grazes my skin. I scream and leap from under its touch. When I leap the floor disappears altogether, refusing to let me land. My body slips downward into darkness.

* * *

Both occupants of the hallway scream in harmonizing agony for only a few seconds before one is silences. The hall is suddenly quiet; the chaos of moments ago has died. The man creeps forward; he can't see the woman from where he stands at the top of the stairs. He presses his sleeved arm against the left side of his face. His ripped flesh burning as the crimson blood seeps down his jaw. He spits some of the red liquid from his mouth, an agonizing motion.

"Harrr—" the man tries calling for his wife, but the wound enlarging his mouth keeps him from forming her name. He peers down the narrow staircase, heart nearly stopping once he sees the sight below him. His legs push him forward causing him to practically tumble down the flight of stairs.

"Haarrr-rryyy!" he cries to the heap on the floor. The man trips over the final step, falling to his knees. "Har—" he's forced to spit the blood from his mouth again, "Harley…" he finally manages through the psychical pain.

He had come to meet her, to take her home and for dinner as a surprise. Now the woman doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't breathe, doesn't pulse. He eyes remain open; her unseeing stare directed at her husband's knees. He body is sprawled in an odd position, something just isn't correct about her pose.

"Harleyy…" the man whimpers, water beginning to gather in his eyes. His trembling fingers gently brush strands of long blonde hair from her face. Her face is beautiful even now. With her hair pushed carefully behind her head her husband can now clearly see her twisted neck.

His shoulder collapse, his entire body shaking as a sob escapes his injured mouth. But that pain is secondary now. "No…" he whines in disbelief, "Harley…" he gingerly leans closer to her, fighting with himself the whole way so not to stain her with his blood. He lays an ear against her chest but hears no beating from within.

"No, no, no, no" he trembles. His hands search for any form of life across her skin. The warmth is fading from her body, causing him the scream out. He yells again, his voice raspy and hurt, his tears sting the cut in his cheek but he can hardly feel it. He can only see her lying lifelessly before him and the small pool of blood forming beneath her, seeping from between her legs. His hand reaches out to graze her belly; she had just begun showing signs of pregnancy a few weeks again. Her stomach was small, but still round.

The hand keeping the blood inside his skin ceases to do its duty. Instead the limp reaches for the small knife lying harmlessly amongst the other items spilled from her purse on the tile floor, coated in his blood. He runs his fingers across the now warm metal. He can suddenly feel the fragile pieces of his mind crumbling to the floor.

His fingers traced the path of his wound without purpose. _Why?_ He found himself thinking, _why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why Harley did you do this? Why, what had I done, what did you…. I loved you! I loved you I trusted you I made you smile I…and you….unless she knew._ He thought. She had always been the one to make him smile. The only one he loved and trusted in a world filled with vile and untrustworthy people. So she knew. She knew this would happen to her and therefore wanted to make sure she kept him smiling. After all he would be sad losing his wife and unborn child. She had to keep him smiling somehow. So why not carve her smile permanently across his lips, so that even through the rougher stuff he'd always be smiling. It made perfect sense.

He plunged the used knife into the right side of his mouth. _But she hadn't a chance to finish_, he thought as he pulled the blade upward into his skin. He giggled through the pain. No need to suffer; not anymore than he has to. Though his giggle soon turned into a grumble and then a sob as his eyes caught sight of the dead women on the floor. A thought struck him: had he killed her? Did her force her over that ledge?

_NO!_ His mind barked as he ripped the blade from his mouth. He could still taste the metal as blood dripped on his tongue from both sides of his torn face.

He had the sudden urge to lean down and kiss her on her lips, but that would ruin her. He would get blood all over her face and he couldn't do that to such a beautiful creature. Instead he reached out and plucked a tube of abandoned lipstick from the ground. This had been hers. It has touched her lips. It would have to do.

He could hear voices yelling through the corridors. If they found him like this they would think he had murdered his own wife, which he hadn't! Had he? It didn't matter. Either way he had lost. He had lost her. He had lost everything, everything that ever mattered. So what was the point of carrying on now? _Because you lost…and now you have purpose to fulfill._

He decided he didn't like losing very much. It was far better to be the victor. This losing business hurt far too much to make it habit. He would simply have to make it up to her—for losing. He would have to find a different game to play. A game he would win.

He suddenly remembered a phrase his father used to tell him once he was done beating the boy. "Whatever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger!" he would cackle, of course he was drunk most of the time so the words would slur, making his father sound like he was saying "stranger" instead.

"Look down there!" he heard somebody yell from above.

He crawled next to her and carefully, very carefully gave his wife a small peck on the tip of her nose, "love you Harley Queen," he sang as he wiped a small smear of blood from her face before pushing himself back onto his feet.

Others came rushing down the staircase, they saw the girl and they saw the blood but never any sign of another. He had already disappeared into the shadows of the asylum by then. He would blend in, just like any other patient. He would wait. Till the time was right, till the world would forget him, till he could forget himself almost entirely. Just let the madness consume, but remember your purpose: havoc. She told him once, havoc with ensue upon this loss. So he'll give it to them, all of those slimy, unfaithful, orderly, scheming, vile, greedy and stupid people that deserved it. And he would never—_never—_lose again. That was a promise.


	10. Nothing to do With all Your Strength

"Search him!" The newly resurrected Lieutenant Gordon barked the order to a rookie. The young officer gulped at the thought of psychically having to touch the deranged criminal before him. The clown smirked upon noticing the man's tension and gave the briefest of motions for the officer to come on closer with his cuffed hands. Reluctantly the young cop's orders were followed. He groped through the Joker's pockets while the jester remained unnaturally silent—waiting for all his secrets to be relieved.

"Another one," the rookie cop said to another after gingerly lifting the ninth or tenth concealed, lint covered blade from another pocket. The noise had lifted the Joker from his reverie. He chuckled once lightly for no particular reason, but all laughing ceased when the officer's hands began search the first back pocket of his trousers. Of course another knife was revealed, but that was of no importance. The hand shifted its attention to the second pocket, first padding it lightly to feel no objects beneath the flat section of cloth. Then the officer's hand attempted to reach inside, however, the try was futile. The pocket had never been functional, sew stuff but the tailor. The rookie abandoned that section of fabric and moved on.

The Joker laughed then, a hearty and twisted laugh. What exactly was it that he kept in that pocket closed off and protected from the rest of the world anyhow? He hardly knew the preciseness of the object anymore but it mattered not. So long as they didn't take it. His mind would never be obtainable to them so long as they didn't take it. His laugh grew in volume as he though, _they have nothing. They have nothing to threaten me with at all._

The End

* * *

Well this is a bit overdue but I would just like to thank everybody who either favorite, or alerted or reviewed this story—especially those of you who would actually take the time to review every chapter. Thanks so much. Your feedback is much appreciated and I am very pleased that you all enjoyed Joker's Wild. 

EccentrikPirate


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